


Of Sun and Starlight

by arnediadglanduath



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Deliberate Chaos, Gen, General Chaos, Possible Warnings To be Added, Power Dynamics, Relationships May Change, Sephiroth being pretty confused, Thranduil being a dick, alternating povs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:14:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arnediadglanduath/pseuds/arnediadglanduath
Summary: : ON HIATUS until the culmination of Panacea due to the fact this is going to be explosively large (word length wise) and I cannot multitask because doofness.Hojo puts Sephiroth in a vat of mako directly connected with the Planet’s core. He thinks this will give him massive amounts of power. Really, it just teleports him into Middle Earth. Specifically, it teleports him into Middle Earth just outside the gates of Greenwood the Great;Thranduil is not happy about this.He is also displeased with the fact that Sephiroth isnearly-so he tells himself-as gloriously attractive as he is.





	1. Chapter 1

Sephiroth was fairly sure he’d fallen through a wormhole.

Blinking cluelessly at the scenery around him-and it was _difficult_ to make someone of his combative and intellectual caliber look clueless-the silver-haired FIRST acknowledged that he had no idea where he was. Normally, this wouldn’t be too much of a setback...his sense of direction was impeccable...99.9% of the time. This was-apparently-the 0.01% occurance of its catastrophic failure. He couldn’t tell by looking which way was North, East might as well have been a myth from a children’s tale and West and South were much the same. His instincts were going haywire; there was magic everywhere but it wasn’t the _right_ kind of magic. It was soft...errant...almost whimsical in its presence but at the same time powerful.

His first, most relevant concern was that he didn’t recognize the foliage. The trees were massive and pale; they sported smooth bark and teardrop-shaped, slightly-jagged leaves. Searching his massive cranial catalogue of dendrology, the green-eyed SOLDIER grudgingly noted that he had no idea what they were. They seemed to be the dominant arboreal growth in his immediate vicinity. This told him that he was nowhere he had ever been before, and he was fairly sure he had traveled every continent on Gaia to a rather thorough extent.

The grass was soft...springy and verdant. This too was unusual; with HQ tapping into the Lifestream with ever-increasing force and frequency, much of the Planet’s soil was tainted. Nothing grew with particular lushness anywhere, and he’d never really taken note of it until the current moment. The explosion of plant-related life surrounding him was so bright it nearly hurt his eyes...infused with mako as they were. Everything seemed so _alive_...so stark and clear and somehow breathing in ways that Gaia did not...not anymore in any case. His world had never been this way; his world of chrome and steel and metal and half-wastelands peppered with desperate gasping areas of green was different than this one.

His second concern was how and _why_ he was where he was.

The how wasn’t that complicated; Hojo had taken a single mako tank and fed its pipes directly into the Planet’s core; had let the raw, unprocessed essence of the Lifestream churn up into the sublevel holding tanks until the cylindrical shape seemed to glow with it. Sometimes Sephiroth wondered why he was the one who was always privy to the ‘Good Doctor’s’ madnesses; why he had to endure for the sake of the greater good. But he was loyal, he was steadfast even if sometimes he wished for a mentality in which he was not so drop-of-the-hat obedient. ...But it was all he’d ever known. That...and death...bloodshed and rage, the song of the sword and the screams of those he had killed.

Hojo had opened the tank...and pushed him in.

Shifting slightly on the grass, the General rubbed his leather-clad arm in a somewhat absent minded manner. The rest of it was hazy...given to him in broken snippets that didn’t make much sense whatsoever. He could recall the sensation of falling...of something yanked within him so tight he wasn’t entirely sure his abdomen wouldn’t come out through his spine. Falling...a recollection of falling...endless depth and _hot_ but cold, disorientation and a vastness so great something within him had shivered at the gargantuity of it. There was an absence...of something. He didn’t know what it was...only that it had always lingered in the recesses of his psyche...whispering, _hissing_...and now...nothing. He’d always been inundated with a vague purpose that was never quite clear...a terrible aim that he’d flinched before when his thoughts became too dark.

Now...his mind was empty of all save for himself.

The sense of loss at its egress he could credit to psychology; you didn’t live with vague...disembodied presences in your brain and not miss them when they were gone. It was a bit like losing a friend, though he wasn’t entirely sure that he’d ever had friends. He and Genesis were constantly butting heads and Angeal was friendly but far to enmired in the concepts of kindness and honor. Not that _he_ didn’t believe in honor, but it was always a background to his sense of engrained duty. _Friendliness_ was always a bit second par because whenever he smiled people tended to think he was considering different ways to murder them. Now...he was without a purpose. Grunting in a somewhat self-deprecating manner, Sephiroth acknowledged that this wasn’t exactly true; he had to get back to HQ. He had to get back and write a report regarding this strange, undiscovered place and perhaps avoid Hojo for a few months just for the sake of making him panic about where he’d been teleported off to.

The problem was-of course-that he didn’t know where HQ was.

If he could find a helicopter-something he wasn’t entirely sure he could do-he could fly above the treeline and gather his bearings. There was always-of course-the option of _climbing_ the trees but that wouldn’t give him a large vantage point and he needed something other than a generalized locale. A mountain range he recognized...a familiar body of water...anything, really. Feasibly, he could also look for intelligent life, but he didn’t know how friendly that intelligent life would be and he was-as Fair would say- _’square terrifying on a normal day off the battlefield.’_ It wasn’t exactly a secret that his people skills were abysmal. He was decent with diplomacy, but most of his diplomatic missions had involved HQ sending word of his arrival ahead of time. The exception, of course, was Wutai, but that had just involved a lot of killing and he was good at that but he didn’t want to kill the locals without finding anything out first.

He still had Masamune.

Someone else might have considered that a relief, but he'd long ago learned that relying on your weapon alone to see you through was not only foolhardy, it was arrogant. More concerning was the fact that his materia-what little he carried with him-was non-functional. Pulling a Cure out of his pocket, Sephiroth was disheartened but not particularly surprised when he attempted to draw upon its power and promptly discovered he was holding on to what amounted to a rock. Further inspection proved that it did not glow, did not possess any particular uniqueness other than being smooth, shiny, and somewhat green. This was fine; he could bandage a wound-or several-just fine on his own. Mortal wounds were-of course-more difficult, but that was neither here nor there and if he died he died. The General had long ago learned that mortality was something as inevitable as the tide.

Tilting his head to the side, green eyes narrowed as their owner clenched his fist tightly before letting go, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in a contemplative manner. Glancing up at the sky proved that it was becoming swiftly dark, and he knew better than to venture into unknown places at night. Normally, travelling by starlight didn't bother him, and the stars here were so bright he could almost already see them despite the fact that night hadn't fallen yet. No, what left him with reticence was the complete unknown of what he might face. He supposed, in some ways that that was a facet of cowardice, but limitless confidence did no one any favors, and he had to draw a line somewhere. He could fix a lean-to, find something to eat, and then go to sleep in order to start fresh. It was a basic training tactic new recruits learned straight off; and while he was reluctant to fall into SOLDIER 'infancy’, it was an effective method nevertheless.

His first priority was shelter.

Standing, drawing Masamune and marching towards one of the trees, he paused. Upon approaching it, his purpose of cutting it down suddenly seemed heinous...like he was cutting away something deeply sacred. The minute the thought crossed his mind he gravely questioned his sanity, because he was not Genesis and he did not believe in the 'aliveness’ of everything and it's connection to the earth. He dispatched of the tree methodologically and professionally and shoved the uncertainty he felt about cutting off each limb to the wayside. While he did so, he firmly told himself that he was doing this for survival. The fact that he could quite easily sleep on the ground without cover was not important. This was training, it was simple and efficient and clean and there was nothing 'sinful’ about it. It did not matter that it now felt like a large section of the forest was glaring murderously at him...not at all.

The feeling intensified when he tried to hunt.

Setting his sights on a large rabbit in an adjoining thicket, Sephiroth managed to corner and snatch it up by the ears before an intense feeling of disapproval nearly caused him to drop it. He didn't, of course; he was a SOLDIER, not a teenage girl with a love for all things fuzzy and soft. He did, however, make its passing as swift as possible and made sure to bury what he couldn't use to eat. Returning to create a fire-with the apparently intense disapproval of the forest-the silver-haired FIRST reflected that he'd be sincerely grateful to leave the area and its bizarre naturistic inclinations behind. He ate quickly, with the distinctly annoying sensation of being a child eating something strictly forbidden by his caretakers. What remained he disposed of in much the same manner as the carcass, and he let the fire burn for a while to dispel the smell of cooked meat before logging it up to allow it to slowly die overnight.

Setting up the lean-to didn't take long. Initially, he'd intended to erect it next to a tree, but the distinct and ridiculous feeling of placing a 'dead body’ next to a family member persisted in his frontal cortex. He ended up fashioning a wikiup with a makeshift bough bed and was satisfied with the results. The mako in his system kept the going steady despite the low light, and when he was done he was fairly certain he'd sleep better than he usually did on most missions. The greenery he used for the bough bed was incredibly soft as far as greens went. And the spare leaves, limbs, and brush gathered to cover the frame were thick and insulated well. Somewhat regretfully, Sephiroth acknowledged that if he'd worn a turtleneck under his uniform he could use his coat as a blanket; but there was no use regretting things now.

Settling down for the night was harder than he anticipated it would be.

The shelter in of itself was perfect and he was quite comfortable, but the watchful nature of the forest set his teeth on edge. It got to the point that he was forced to get up and run through several hand to hand combat cycles before he felt even close to tired enough to ignore it. He knew better than to dismiss the sensation entirely, of course. Magic worked in strange ways and he did not want to wake up in a compromised situation, but he still wanted to sleep. Feeling somewhat better, the silver-haired FIRST lay back down and peered at the stars twinkling through a slight gap between frame and foliage. He didn't think he'd seen such stars before and that was very concerning. Sephiroth was not an astrologist, but SOLDIERS were taught astral patterns from varying locational vantage points to help them navigate should the situation arise. He didn't know these stars or their constellations. It only solidified his certainty that perhaps he wasn't on Gaia anymore.

He didn't know how to feel about that.

The professional in him insisted that such a concept was preposterous. It whispered that he was tired and confused and not looking at things correctly. There was another part of him, however, that whispered that he was only rationalizing it because if that was the case, there was a very good chance he wouldn't be able to return...and then what would he do with himself? Live in the woods forever? Offer his services to a company here? He didn't particularly like the idea of being a mercenary but he didn't want to take that particular card off the table in case he became desperate. Killing was a facet of his personality, he was used to it, he was _comfortable_ with it. And he didn't want to not be a SOLDIER, all considerations and insecurities aside. He liked training the men, liked doing paperwork and liked leading missions. He was successful and happy and unconcerned with what others might consider a 'normal’ life because he'd never gotten the opportunity to live normally.

Normalcy seemed like a crutch.

As it was...he forced himself to think of it another time; when his eyes weren't growing heavy and his breathing wasn't becoming deep and even. With the unfamiliar stars spinning above, Sephiroth slept.

* * *

 

He woke to several people trying to quietly slip into his camp.

Ripping his way out of his shelter in the blink of an eye and catching his would-be-possible-apprehenders gobsmacked and shocked, he acknowledged that they weren't human. For one, everything about them was too perfect. They were lithe, slim, fine-boned with aquiline, almost delicate features whose pants Genesis would have declared _'worthy of getting into’_. Dismissing aesthetic, they were adroit, quick-footed and impossibly fast. Sephiroth discovered this when he tried to retreat and found one in his path so swiftly it was as if ‘she'd’ teleported there without moving a muscle. She had a bow and arrow, and bright hazel eyes were sizing up his sword like he was overcompensating for something. Raising a silver brow, the silver-haired FIRST ‘hmphed’ and then promptly vaulted over her head. He took the time to note her pointed ears before he was off into the undergrowth.

Immediately, there was an explosion of excited chatter behind him. He didn't recognize the language but he did recognize that they all seemed rather delighted with him and that was very strange. He was-so he assumed-an intruder in their territory but they seemed deliriously happy to give him a head start before the sounds of their pursuit became apparent. They talked as they went, which was so bizarre he didn't even think about it. Several of them took to the trees like it was as easy as breathing and their laughter followed him like wind chimes on the breeze. They weren't loud...he'd give them that. An unenhanced human running from them wouldn't have known which way to turn, but he was-thankfully-very enhanced. This seemed to only make them happier, and he was soon sprinting through unknown woodland with pursuers at his back that might as well have been singing.

Normally, he'd have attacked them outright.

Something in him had whispered that he needn't, however, so he settled with avoidance until he could talk to them on his own terms. He didn't like being caught off guard; liked being caught off guard by a non-human sentient race with reflexes nearly equal to his own even less. Skidding into a clearing, Sephiroth had the distinct displeasure of watching one drop from the trees directly in front of him. Dark haired with light eyes and a suspiciously friendly demeanor, he-assuming it was a he-cocked his head and smiled so widely that the silver-haired man was shocked his face didn't split in half. He was not on Gaia, _no one_ was so friendly on Gaia if they wanted to live a long and happy life.

_”Mae g'ovannen! Agóreg vae, hir nin!”_ A sweeping bow and if he were a lesser man he'd have gaped. When his adversary righted himself, his expression was slightly more sober, but still benevolent. Stretching out a hand, he jerked his head. __”Tolo, govano ven.”__

Well, that much he could comprehend. Gritting his teeth, Sephiroth sidestepped his friendly opponent, feinted right, and took a left.

“No.” he threw over his shoulder.

_”Galu!”_ was the cheerful reply. Several seconds passed before the sounds of his conversant’s friends caught up with him, and he heard the comment. _”Westron, ma, naw? Menathab!”_

It took a good long while, but he did eventually lose them.

Sephiroth was forced to venture into darker, slightly more distasteful-feeling parts of the forest but he shook them near a large brook whose water made him feel sick just by looking at it. It carried a strange aura, and he didn’t stop to drink, merely passed on until he was fairly sure that he was truly alone. Here, the woods were muggy, somewhat hot...and even his usually-impeccable vision was compromised. The trees were different as well; gnarled oaks with dark and flaky bark, black canopies, and a kind of sticky, unpleasant web-like substance was strung between them that he couldn’t at first glance identify. Moths abounded in large and ugly quantities and he couldn’t walk more than a few paces without pausing to swat a dozen or so out of his face. This would have been fine-he’d been through much worse on reconnaissance missions-but he was promptly attacked by a spider the size of motorcycle. Said vehicle-sized arachnid apparently had backup, and by the time he was done dispatching them he was covered in disgusting, oleaginous blood and he smelled absolutely horrendous.

He backtracked so he could bathe.

This was easier said than done. The forest seemed to waylay his progress at every turn; he encountered trees that he couldn’t recall passing, edged into dark clearings he had no memory of traversing. It was almost as if the scenery around him shifted in order to deceive him. He wasn’t ignorant to magical woodlands; there were rumors that the Sleeping Forest tended to swallow those foolish enough to wander in...never to return. This, however, was ridiculous. He’d never managed to get so dirty within a few days of starting a mission; no matter how treacherous the terrain. He was also not a sloppy killer, but when you had adversaries that seemed to vomit their bodily fluids out of every orifice upon dispatch, hissing and clicking all the while, it was somewhat more difficult. He had never-by his memory-encountered an enemy that died in so offensively filthy a manner. Sephiroth didn’t rise to ire easily, but he’d also never been to a place that was so disturbingly beautiful and so disgusting at the same time.

His camp was overrun.

Specifically, there were a number of robed, stately individuals waltzing about his camp, muttering to themselves and each other, waving plants, and looking decidedly stern. They did, he acknowledged, look far more professional than the ruffians he had encountered before. He nearly made to speak with them when he realized-at the last split second-that he was covered in blood, his hair was a mess, and he was in no decorative state to carry on a diplomatic conversation. There was a brook perhaps half a mile to the East that he’d sprinted by earlier, and he determined to go there and make himself at least not look like a threat before he tried to talk to anyone. This was-again-easier said than done, and it took him forty five minutes to find it again. By the time he did, he was given the distinct impression that he was being watched but there was nothing for it. Stripping off his uniform, the silver-haired SOLDIER slid over the bank and into the clear water while keeping an eye on his surroundings.

He made it as quick as was feasibly possible.

Washing himself didn’t take long, but his uniform took more work. He had to veritably soak it and scrub what soil remained with handfuls of brush that he found before it was even halfway to satisfactorily clean. Normally, he’d have used a materia to dry his clothes but he’d left his materia behind at the camp...they were nothing more than hindrances at this point. The sun was waning once again, so leaving his garments to lose some of their wet in the sun was equally impossible. He discovered-to his great chagrin-that pulling on wet leathers was rather like trying to re-peel a piece of fruit. The green-eyed FIRST struggled with his pants for a good ten minutes before he could get them on his person in a way that was remotely acceptable. His other garments didn’t take half as long, but by the time he was finished he was feeling more than irritated.

Sephiroth supposed this was why he was caught so easily upon returning to his camp.

And really, it wasn’t like he’d failed to be quiet. He took utmost care not to retrace his steps; to take a roundabout route that would bring him up at the rear. The strange, robed individuals were still there but they were mostly talking quietly among themselves in their strange, musical language. Crouching behind a large, foreign tree, he debated on the best avenue of approach. He could always simply walk in, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be shot, with a bow or otherwise. His strange forest companions might have been benevolent towards him before, but after making them spend the whole day tracking him, they had to be less than thrilled with his avoidance. There was always the option of holding one of them hostage. He could step out behind whoever was closest to the treeline, put Masamune to their throat and then demand some type of direction out of the forest. He didn’t really want to make enemies if he didn’t have to, however, and he dithered far too long.

Up close...they were even more beautiful.

The waning sun threw its shimmering rays on alabaster skin...accentuated high cheekbones and shapely smiles underneath laughing eyes. Despite their awareness of his presence, they were clearly easy in their demeanor. Nothing about them bespoke of any sort of tension drawn from the fact that there was an armed individual in their territory that could possibly kill them. He couldn’t draw an official first impression from them at all...and he didn’t know if that indicated that they were simply confident in their skillset and environment or very foolhardy. They were also very clearly skilled in combat. Someone without his training woudn’t have noticed it, but their posture, while casual, was deeply observant. They seemed heavily attuned to the environment around them, and even if they didn’t look towards the occasional, naturalistic sounds of the forest...they still took note. A cocked head here, a lean to the left there; they positioned themselves in synchronicity to one another, never left their backs to the treeline very long. In a different situation, Sephiroth would have been practically gnawing at the bit to learn about their battle tactics. He’d worked with his personal squadron for nearly a decade and they weren’t half so attuned to their teammates. He supposed that firearms made up for the lack of communication, but it would still have been quite the opportunity to gain knowledge. In the end...his attention to what was the before him was what blinded him to what was approaching from behind.

Specifically, a blade came up from behind and pressed against his throat.

At first, he was momentarily shocked...because really, that was impossible. He’d never been snuck up on before. Let alone snuck up on in a situation where he was the observer and his adversaries the searchers. Heat from another body raidated close at this back...tense but not unprofessionally so...poised on the edge of a kind of finesse he couldn’t fathom. When he jerked slightly the blade dug in...kept going until a thin...fine runnel of blood trickled from his jawline to his collar. He was-abruptly-aware that the clearing before him had fallen silent...that the subjects of his attention were gone as if they had never been...and he cursed his idiocy. He had fallen for distraction, as they had suspected he would...or so he imagined. How they had deduced his interest, he didn’t know...nor did he know how they had premeditated it beforehand.

“That’s quite a sword you have, _mellon_.”

The voice in question was smooth, slightly accented and heavily aristocratic. Inflected, clearly masculine...lighthearted but with a threat hanging in the undertones...it lingered even after the verbalization had gone...was gravid with a kind of simmering watchfulness combined with severe authority. When Sephiroth made no move to escape, the body behind him shifted. At first, he assumed that whoever it was meant to pull away, but he was wrong. Instead, the form at his rear settled, as if readying itself for a lengthy conversation. Gritting his teeth, the General acknowledged that this was quite averse to how he’d envisioned things going...but even he knew the limits of his mortality. The blade at this throat was heavy...engraved and masterfully crafted...he could tell merely by looking at it. It wasn’t like any blade he had ever seen, but it still emanated that familiar, whimsical power he had sensed from the woods around him. Sephiroth was not a coward, but he knew better than to mess with magical circumstances...and it was clear at this point that this was magical beyond what he knew. Genesis might know...but he did not.

“Now” the voice continued. “You come into my kingdom...you cut down my trees...you evade my footmen...and yet still you return...to _bathe_ no less.” By the end of the sentence, his companion’s tone had turned incredulous, but it was a faux form of surprise. Underneath the initial tonality was a kind of watchful derisiveness layered with a thick distrust. “You speak Westron, but you are not human...no human could evade my soldiers for long...yet you did so.” A velvety chuckle followed. “You’re quite the sight to them, you know. I suppose that’s why they didn’t kill you…’tis avarice, I fear...us elves and our love for pretty things.” The voice sighed. “And you are quite pretty...disheveled as you are...I can see why they took such a shining to you.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he settled with something more generalized.

“It was just one tree” he replied tonelessly.

“ _Ma_ , I did take note of that. And I suppose I should thank you for using it so respectfully and thoroughly, along with the rabbit, but I’m not going to. You see, as King, I don’t have to thank you for anything.”

“I wasn’t aware that Kings still held status in this day and age” Sephiroth snapped thoughtlessly.

There was a long pause, and he could sense the body behind him stiffen before relaxing once more.

“And where do you come from, I wonder, where there are no Kings?” Angry with himself for his verbal misstep, the silver-haired SOLDIER gritted his teeth and kept silent. “How many years have you seen?”

Figuring that this question, at the very least, could broker him no harm, the General opened his mouth.

“Twenty-seven.”

For the first time, he seemed to have surprised his companion. There was silence at this back for a long moment before the voice spoke again. When it did, laughter was laced in every facet of its tone.

“You are but a babe” was the chortled response. “Though I suppose your brashness should have given me warning of such a fact.” At this, Sephiroth made a pointed move to break away and was unable to stop the hiss of pain that escaped through his teeth as the blade bit in harder. “Ah ah, none of that. You are a warrior too, I see. But I have you here...and here you will remain until I make a decision.”

Sephiroth wanted to protest that he was not an infant, that his lack of years didn't make him inferior. He was a General, a war hero...a man who'd led his men into countless battles while still keeping his pride and his integrity intact. He had upheld the reputation of the company he served with honor and fierce determination; had suffered through countless, needless 'checkups’ in the Science Division, gritted his teeth and borne it for the sake of the greater good...because that was what had to be done. Sephiroth had led his first skirmish at thirteen and had trained for warfare since he was six years old. His reputation and name were steeped in blood, power, and fear. He said none of these things...better that the enemy think that he was weak...better that he catch them off guard and at the right moment.

“You have done my forest a disservice and yet an even greater service.” As if sensing his confusion at the statement, the voice went on. “The network of spiders you dispatched has plagued my people and travelers for many a moon. The wood in that area is sick...cursed and diseased, but they only added to its treacherousness. Your sword has done me a great favor.”

“It was not an intentional favor” Sephiroth deadpanned.

The laugh he received in return was genuine this time, genuine and delighted.

“Oh, I didn't think so, _mellon_ , but it is a favor regardless of intent, and so I owe you a debt of honor.” There was a pause. “However, that does not change the fact that you have wandered into my realm, a stranger, an outsider with strange physical prowess, a strange blade, stranger dress and a coldness to you I do not know. I am a distrustful ruler, and I dislike letting the unknown wander forth with knowledge of my realm upon his lips...no matter what good he may do for me or my people.” A heavy sign. “No you shall stay a while, I think. Until we might know you, and your purpose.”

“...And if I don't agree?”

This drew a reaction. Specifically, it drew a painful reaction. A hand yanked at his hair; drew it back tight and hard; the strength behind it was pointed, intentional, and unmistakable. His neck was bared to the wakening stars, and the blade before it reflected their light with a fierce, bitter light as it bit further. He would need bandaging now...though he uttered no sound to protest the action. When his companion spoke again, his tone was black as the void.

“Then maybe I should kill you here and now, it would spare me the trouble of dragging you back to the Halls. It would certainly spare me the bother of having an extra belly to fill... especially if it's an _ungrateful_ one.”

Sephiroth acceded.

It took putting aside every aspect of his pride to do so, but he acceded. Still stiff, still roiling with an indignant rage, he surrendered, as he had never done in his life. The shame he felt was ingrained, was a stain on his honor…but he gave way.

“...May I at least know your name?”

This he had to force over his tongue...it was grating, bitter and resentful, but he said it nevertheless. Again, the 'voice’ seemed to consider his query before replying.

“Perhaps you should deign to give me yours before you ask such things.”

Gritting his teeth for what felt like the thousandth time, the green-eyed SOLDIER opened his mouth.

“Sephiroth” he spat out.

“...A strange name” was the suave response, and he nearly bit through his lip. “My name is Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Greenwood…You Sephiroth, are my guest...for now…”

“...However, I have no qualms in regards to making you my prisoner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Erain Thranduil was having a rather strange evening.

Really, it had been a rather odd day overall, but the evening seemed to bring everything to a head. He’d woken up in good spirits; spring had come for the Greenwood. The grass was growing, flowers were blooming, afternoon showers left an ethereal, dewy halo about new leaves and the usually slow winter shipments to and from Laketown were picking up momentum. There was fresh food in the cellars; new wine and cheese, and what crops were planted in his kingdom would surely flourish in the months ahead. The people were happier too. Yuletide was a time for celebration, but afterwards the months grew long, dark, and cold and by the time the snow started to melt most everyone was ready for it. _Eryn Galen_ was beautiful covered in tufty, glittering drifts...but it was never an easy time. Food was often scarce...especially with the ailing part of the forest ever-expanding, and the caves were dark, moist, and cold.

...It really wasn’t _Eryn Galen_ anymore, however.

Only a small portion of the woodland remained untouched by the great Darkness that emanated from _Dol Guldur_. Sometimes, it confused him. Mithrandir insisted that Sauron had been driven out...that he had fled during the mysterious battle that occurred in the depths of the black fortress that had once been the capital of his people...the pride of his father. The Necromancer was gone...granted, not vanquished….but the bitter, sickening evil of his presence remained. He had tried to heal the forest...his people had tried. At one point, he had asked Gandalf to try but the old wizard had looked at him in a somewhat consternante manner and told him that he could not possibly expect him to _’close up a wound when the rot remained in the flesh.’_ Thranduil was keen enough to comprehend what he meant...was not so close-minded that he could not understand that the Maiar was saying that Sauron must die before the forest could fully be healed...but he did not have to like it.

Nay, he did not have to like that the wicked sickness spreading through his beautiful trees marched ever-closer...and he did not have to like that the monstrous spiders that spawned from its putrid depths often dragged his kin into squalid holes and fed on their corpses for weeks on end. He did not have to find joy in the truth that the Darkness made elven births few...far between and fraught with pain and peril...and he did not have to like that those that wandered in the corrupt spaces of the woodland too long were wont to return half-mad. When the sickness began, he didn’t know what it was. If he wasn’t several hundred years old and didn’t know any better, he might have attributed such things to an ancient magic...like Tauremornalómë. He did know better, however, and Fangorn’s strangeness was that of a fey nature...defensive but not steeped in evil. It grew and grew and more and more of his people fell into shadow...so he led them over the river and into the Eastern part of the forest. Now, he was forced to watch as that darkness crept in upon them like a seeping stain...and he dreaded the day when he would have to announce his beloved woodland unfit for his subjects to safely reside. Feasibly, it would be-in human chronology-quite a long time...but the ingress of it all seemed like the blink of an eye to him.

These were the thoughts that plagued him on a near-constant basis. They were the terrible worries that drove him from his bed and left him staring at the stars at night. Thankfully, his most recent night was quite restful...but the day that followed it was not. He’d woken to Feren crashing through his chamber doors and announcing that there was an intruder in the Greenwood. His first thoughts-quite logically, in his opinion-jumped immediately to orcs or spiders. Stumbling out of bed, still somewhat groggy with sleep, he wished fiercely that Legolas was still about to send out on such ventures. His son-however-was away with the Ranger Aragorn and he hadn’t heard from him in three moons so he had to do such things himself. Elrond was rather insistent in reminding him that if he appointed a new Captain of the Guard, he wouldn’t have to...but some part of him balked at the idea of replacing his child with some possibly-less-competent-ellon.

_”How many?!”_ he’d barked, reaching for his tunic.

_”Just one, hiril vuin”_ was the somewhat pensive reply.

This gave him pause. Because surely his men had not become so dreadfully incompetent overnight that they were incapable of dispatching a single intruder. Granted, the Greenwood elves were somewhat overfond of drink, but even the least surefooted of his footmen could string an arrow with a bottle of wine in his system. If he had gotten up at the edge of dawn to help his entire army dispatch a wandering spiderling he would surely kill them all. T'would be a mercy really, and would spare them the horror and shame of their stupidity. Grumbling to himself and pulling his clothes on in a rather haphazard manner, Thranduil acknowledged that despite the fact that elves were blessed with longevity, extensive stamina and rather good looks, it did not stop them from being air headed on the odd occasion. He would take a great and savage pleasure in deflating whatever idiot thought it was necessary to drag their King into the forest so early in the morning the birds sounded sleepy. Fully dressed in light armament with his sword strapped to his waist, the Elvenking ate the lembas his attendant passed to him with a nod of irritated thanks before striding to the door of his chambers. Before exiting, he turned back and watched as the dark-haired ellon began making his bed.

_”Feren”_ he’d snapped.

_”My lord?”_ was the ever-patient reply.

_”Inform the council upon my return that I wish to resign my Kingship. If they enquire as to why, tell them that I tire of looking after a realm of infants.”_

Feren blinked.

_"I shall make a note of it, my Lord”_ he said with the air of someone who was often chasing after a giant hypocritical elfling.

At the Gates, the situation was somewhat more disgusting than he’d originally anticipated. There were a gaggle of ellon hanging about, chattering excitedly to one another and clearly waiting for him. It was certainly not the picture of combat-related stress that he’d envisioned and it was certainly not serious enough-by the look of it-to rouse him from his sleep. With the beech trees thrusting their new leaves out above, however...it was hard not to appreciate the beauty of the morning regardless. He wasn’t, by habit, a late riser...and he wouldn’t have minded it if it was clearly not the emergency that it had been made out to be. Upon sighting him, the company sobered somewhat but were clearly no less joyful or carefree. Some of them sported grass stains on their clothes and they’d all quite apparently just been through a rather exhilarating sprint through the forest. Their bows were unsheathed but using them was evidently an afterthought. Raising a dark brow, Thranduil came to a stop before them and crossed his arms expectantly.

_“Arduil vaer hiril vuin!”_ was the initial greeting, and he’d nodded in response. The speaker’s name was Imrathon, if he remembered correctly. A member of the lesser guard, good with the bow and possessing a keen eye. _“There is a beautiful stranger in the forest!”_

Thranduil’s eye twitched. Because that explained why said stranger was not dead...though it did not explain why they were not captured. And he wanted to sigh explosively because of course his men were not going to shoot something pretty full of arrows. It would-in their opinion-be a grave misstep.

_”Tell me of this stranger”_ he’d replied wearily. _”So that we may be rid of them.”_

That was easier said than done.

Getting _rid_ of them, in any case. Quite joyfully, he was told that the mysterious person in question had hair as long as a river and silver as starlight, eyes like the finest of emeralds, and a face _‘that would make the Valar weep.’_ When he was informed of this he grumpily wondered if perhaps Celeborn had come to visit and gotten turned about in the forest. There was no reason that he would run from his men, however, and it did not explain his apparently strange dress and ‘nine-foot dirk.’ It could, therefore, not be Celeborn. The Lord of Lothlorien was far too old to be mischievous to such an extent and they were not well-acquainted enough for him to turn his kingdom upside-down for no reason regardless. Thranduil was somewhat leery with Imrathon’s insistence that the individual in question was not an elf, because there was not a humanoid creature on Middle Earth that could easily outrun an elf, let alone _his_ elves in _his_ kingdom. The golden-haired ruler bristled a little bit when it was mentioned that the stranger had cut down a tree for woodfire, because that was not appropriate behavior either. Imrathon went on to describe the nameless individual’s dispatch of a major network of spiders and he was-at this point-so confused that he simply called for the guardsman to be quiet.

From there, he had to ameliorate the situation before it got out of control. He went to see the Elders and asked several of them to ride out to the campsite and gather whatever information they could. He then sent the squadron back out into the forest to locate the stranger again, which they did quite happily. Thranduil gave explicit orders to refrain from trying to make contact again, asked that they report back rotationally every half-sixty-turn and to tell him if the stranger did anything drastic. This was somewhat of a mistake, because the reports came back that the mysterious person was returning to the unblighted part of the Greenwood. He then had the severe displeasure of being informed that said person was bathing and that their body was ‘pale as milk’ with ‘fine muscles’ and ‘shapely buttocks.’ The elf that relayed this particular message he sent to a talon on the outskirts of the forest with the order to not return until she could maintain some form of decorum. She went quite happily with a dazed look on her face and nary a complaint. At this point, with nothing but laud pouring in from the scouts, Thranduil decided to take matters into his own hands. Obviously, it was someone under some type of glamour, or possibly even a dangerous sorcerer bewitching his hapless people.

The ElvenKing called for Tûrin and rode the elk to the campsite. The elders were still there, and they had very little to report save for procuring strange round stones of varying colors that appeared to be rather useless. There was also the remains of a shelter, a cold fire, and a buried rabbit carcass. He filed away the terminology of ‘skilled survivalist’ for later, and sat the elders down to formulate a plan for apprehending their mysterious companion. If his instincts were correct-and they usually were-the man in question was not accustomed to elves. He had run from them, which told him that he was either a foe or a foreigner. A foe would not dispatch a network of spiders, and so he was forced to go with the latter. He was also forced to acknowledge that a sorcerer would not bother to be so tidy with the campsite, nor so thorough with the use of resources. In the end, he waited in the bushes while the elders made a great show of looking mystical and attractive by human standards. Somewhat indignantly, he reflected that a King should not have to hide in the bushes, but this was what it had come to. Listening to the sound of foreign footsteps draw closer, he acknowledged that when he went to bed that night, he would at least rest easy knowing this foolishness was over.

It turned out that his men were not enchanted.

As the brush parted before the individual in question, it took quite a bit of Thranduil’s will not to stare stupidly at him. Because no human he had ever encountered before was so comely. And really, _comely_ was an understatement but he was determined not to go for the grandiose. Fine-featured...at least as tall as himself; slender but clearly muscular. The lips underneath a strong but proportionate nose were shapely but not overly large; the hands that gripped the massive sword at a well-worked waist were adroit and clever. His hair was silver...but he was young for a human...too young to have refinement in his hair, at the very least. He might have guessed that he was half-elven, but he couldn’t sense any kinship in him...though he _could_ sense that he wasn’t entirely human either. Platinum brows were straight and strong, observant...watchful. He walked with a warrior’s bearing, with a kind of strung tension that made Thranduil’s teeth rattle just for seeing it. Fighting him-he sensed-would be a challenge...a good one. One didn’t wield a sword of such size with simplicity...and he walked easily with it...was unencumbered by its presence. The weapon and the individual were one...or the individual _was_ a weapon… At the thought...unease slithered down his spine.

Those eyes were cold...not necessarily mindless...but certainly hard and pained. Thranduil had seen such pain in eyes far older...in the eyes of those who had passed before him. No man should have such a look...a look that bespoke knowledge beyond his possible years...beyond the years that a human would live. He was-momentarily-tempted to kill him just for having that look...because the troubles that would come with it were surely vast. At the same time, he wanted to know more...because one did not encounter someone so different often. This was-shockingly-a singular experience in Thranduil’s _very_ long life, and he was reluctant to toss it away. Still...he could be an agent of Sauron...an unknown threat that could hurt his people...threaten his legacy. He could not safely welcome such unknown...had never been so careless as to do so in the past...and certainly would not do so now. There was first the matter of apprehension, only then could he afford to cater to his curiosity.

The ploy worked.

Stepping up behind his target, Thranduil couldn’t help but feel a small modicum of pride for his people. They handled potential crisis situations well, if a little bit whimsically. Despite the fact that he often felt like he was pulling teeth trying to get them to do anything seriously, they were still masterful at the end of the day. With the elders gone, he was free to talk...free to enquire as he wished. The voice that replied to him was deep, velvety and inherently thoughtful; careful to think before speaking...careful to reply with only as much information as was required. His captive was angry...that much was clear...he struggled but gave little voice to the pain of the Elvenking’s blade at this throat...even when it bit deep.

That took discipline.

Really, it took _decades_ of discipline and when it was declared that the mysterious man was twenty seven Thranduil laughed but it was mostly out of shock. Shock...and a little bit of horror. Because whoever had trained the individual in question had trained him young...too young. There weren’t any laws regarding letting children practice with wooden swords and training bows...but pain tolerance was a built thing….and it was only built in battle. That...or torture. Children were nearly sacred to elves; so rare were they now...so few. To throw an elfling into battle when he was barely out of the cradle was a crime punishable by death...and elves did not issue death sentences lightly. Humans were notoriously more crass with their young, but this...this was an evil he was not accustomed to, even in Men. He didn’t have time for pity now, however...didn’t know if he _wanted_ to have pity...so he kept up the kingly pretense...remained authoritative and distant.

His name was Sephiroth.

 

Three-syllabled, like his own title. It was a strange name...carried a mysterious, heavy kind of weight with it. Thranduil was wary when he ceded to his terms, but he supposed that he must have nowhere else to go. When he withdrew his sword, he waited for the impending attack, but it didn’t come. Instead, Sephiroth straightened and rolled his neck...heedless of the blood flowing rather freely down into his collar. Thranduil didn’t offer to bandage it because he sensed that it would be an affront...though how he knew that he couldn’t say. They were of equal height, and that was no small thing. His silver-haired captive carried himself with authority, with the air of someone who had commanded...and the air of someone who was commanded. He didn’t know what that meant….didn’t know if it boded for good or for ill. In the end, the Elvenking turned and led the way back to Tûrin, was unsurprised to see a gaggle of sentries waiting for him looking half-guilty and half painfully curious. Sephiroth followed like a silent shadow...said nothing...only observed with a detached...professional focus. At the sight of Tûrin, he paused for but a moment before drawing level with him. Observing his men with a weary kind of fondness, Thranduil gestured to the green-eyed individual.

“This is Sephiroth” he said calmly. “He is a guest in our halls...for now. Send word ahead to have a chamber made up for him.”

There was a chorus of _’Mae govannen, Sephiroth’_ s before two of the scouts broke off to scramble into the trees and take off towards the Halls. The man in question’s eyes followed them cautiously, watched their progress blankly, and it took Thranduil a moment before he acknowledged that he was curious...but was reluctant to put it into words.

“My people value the trees...they were our home...for a long time” he said calmly, turning to Tûrin. “Before the darkness came to our forest, we lived in them predominantly...with the wind in our hair and the clouds above us.”

“...What happened?”

Quiet, toneless and yet seeking. The Elvenking considered the individual before him...stiff-backed...standing at attention yet subtly ill at ease.

“A great evil came...from Angmar...a corrupt sorcerer descended upon _Eryn Galen_ and cast it into Darkness. He sundered our capitol...took it for himself and his allies and laid waste to those who lived there.”

“...And you did not kill him?”

Regarding the man steadily, Thranduil tilted his head.

“We drove him out...but he lives...so the Darkness lives.” He stroked Tûrin absentmindedly. “And some evils do not die so easily...but I think you know that.”

Green eyes pierced him for a moment...silent yet alive in a way that was unconscionable. It was strange...to be so disturbed by someone he did not know...to understand that the individual before him was a very great man without knowing his tale.

“Yes.”

The reply was flat but tinged with a velvet...inky blackness. Nodding to himself, Thranduil gestured for Sephiroth to climb up. When the silver-haired man did nothing but blink confusedly, he opened his mouth.

“We will ride back, it’s faster than walking, unless you wish to take the trees, which I sincerely doubt.”

“I am not riding a moose.”

Thranduil huffed impatiently.

“Tûrin is an elk, not a moose. It’s not so different from riding a horse. If it pains you, I can ride to the fore, I have no misgivings regarding my honor or my pride.”

At the mention of honor, Sephiroth’s face spasmed, but he recovered quickly. Squaring his jaw, the younger man strode forward and-after a minute or so of carefully concealed confusion-swung up onto Tûrin’s back, shifting deliberately towards the front. Thranduil followed without comment...mounted easily and murmured a wordless thanks when he was handed the reigns. Shaking them, he was forced to grasp the silver-haired man’s waist when he nearly fell off.

“One would think that you didn’t ride often” he commented idly as the elk settled into a steady trot.

“I don’t” was the reply through gritted teeth. “At all.”

“Ahh, I see. A fear of them then, is it? I don’t blame you _mellon_ , horses can be dreadfully tempered, especially when trained poorly.”

“No” Sephiroth said flatly. “Helicopters are simply faster and much more efficient. Horses are so antiquated they’re not even raised for military purposes.”

“Fascinating” Thranduil said genuinely. “And what do you do with them otherwise? And what is this ‘hellycopter?’”

“They’re used for farming” was the dour statement. “And glue. A helicopter is...like a very fast cart...but horseless and-” he cut himself off abruptly. “I don’t think you would understand it if I explained it thoroughly...what is your fastest transportation method here?”

Thranduil decided he did not want to know what ‘glue’ was.

“Horses are fast” he said calmly, ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch and tugging the reigns lightly. “Particularly those of the Rohirrim, and of course you have the Mearas but to tame one would be the fate of a lifetime” he paused. “An elven lifetime. Orcs use wargs...they are swifter than horses but have less stamina, and there’s always the risk of them turning on you. There were of course, the fell beasts the Nazgûl rode...they were somewhat like dragons, but thankfully there were but nine and we have seen naught of them in many an age.”

“I would think nine dragon like creatures would be enough to contend with” Sephiroth muttered.

“We’ve had but one true dragon in recent history” Thranduil replied, squeezing his heels to increase the pace slightly. “He was rather tiresome.”

“They usually are” was the dry return.

“You are used to encountering such creatures” the Elf King observed.

There was a long pause, and for a moment he thought that perhaps he wouldn’t get an answer.

“Yes” was the short reply, suddenly wary again.

“Used to battle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you command a large army?”

Another stretch of wordless space, and Thranduil busied himself with leading them up the rise to the Halls.

“I never said that I commanded any army.”

Nodding at a sentry, the elf sighed.

“You did not have to. It’s in everything you are.”

A stable boy came out to take Tûrin as they came out of the towering beech trees to rest on the flat...packed earth before the massive, double gates marking the entry to what remained of Thranduil’s kingdom.

“Yes.”

Sliding hastily from the elk, his companion’s response was brief, but also heavy. Thranduil was more demure about the affair, but when he was standing on the ground once again, he turned to Sephiroth with an eyebrow raised.

“I need to know only one more thing” he said calmly. “Is that army a threat to me and my people?

Sephiroth’s shoulders seemed to slump for a moment, and he did not look at him...preferring to stare at the gates when he replied...his arms crossed over his chest.

“No...I don’t think so. Normally, I would say yes...but in this case, the distance is too great…”

“....I think this place is further from Gaia than the bottom of the sea is from the stars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I keep writing this instead of Miasma -_- Though Miasma is about two thirds of the way through the next chapter =/ This was a fun one^^
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

>  **Your Long and Lengthy A/N:** So, I don't really know what's going to happen here, but this is a concept I've been playing with for a while. We may see a pairing, we may not. Specifically, it would be a Thranduil/Sephiroth pairing, but I would need to work this so that that pairing would work, and that would take a significant amount of time. Meaning that this would not be a two-shot. It will not-regardless of aim-be a very long ficlet. I'm still working on Miasma, but I needed a break to have some fun, and I had time. Generally, the more time I have to write, the more I'm going to post ^^ And this was, ultimately, so much fun to formulate, and I truly hope you have just as much fun reading it. 
> 
> Generally, I think this is a very strange crossover. But, I'm sort of for taking that sort of thing and attempting-however terribly-to make it believable. This took me a long while to write, and I still struggle with the concept of Sephiroth running...a little. But feasibly, in a situation like that, I think it's somewhat acceptable to consider that reality that he would-due to being used to control-want to take the situation into his hands when he could do it on his own terms. This isn't so much due to weakness as it is Sephiroth being a control freak. Also, in this fic you'll find that elves have similar prowess to SOLDIER; minus the night vision, of course. I think this is-in general-somewhat believable as we are dealing with a mythical situation. 
> 
>   **Translations:**  
>     
>  _Mae govannen..etc: _-well met! You did well my Lord!__
> 
>  
> 
> __Tolo, govano ven._ -come join us_
> 
>  
> 
>   _Galu!_ -good luck!
> 
>  _Westron,ma, naw? Menathab!_ -westron, good, yes? Let's go!
> 
>  _mellon_ -friend
> 
> Thanks for Reading!
> 
>  
> 
> **R &R**


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